


Biblical Transgressions

by thedorkygirl



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 09:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedorkygirl/pseuds/thedorkygirl
Summary: He believes in Sydney . . . and he believes she's perfect. Where will this perfection take them? (some sex, disturbing material)





	Biblical Transgressions

**TRANSGRESSION** (1): _sin_  
**TRANSGRESSION** (2): _the spread of the sea over land areas as if by the melting of polar ice or as if by the dissolving of a land barrier, allowing access to a basin or similar_

* * *

**i've felt the hand of the Devil, felt his breath on my skin**   
_The cold is powerful. It envelopes all that it encounters in the everlasting dusk and dawn and darkness. Its embrace is pure ice that leaves a shiver where it was when it departs. Across the vast white there is a brightness that is not just reflected from the other chunks of ice surrounding everything. Slowly, a hint of red is seen on the horizon._

He watched as she studied the cantaloupes pensively. The woman to her right was eyeing the same ones as she, so she shifted slightly (blocking her view). He laughed quietly to himself. He watched as she reached over and as she picked up one and examined it, looking for spots of mold and pressing upon the outer skin to feel for softness in the flesh of the fruit. She went through three fruits before she found one she apparently liked. Casting the woman a smug look over her shoulder (it was so her . . . that look), she placed the cantaloupe in her cart and walked down to the fish section of the store.

She wandered the aisles almost aimlessly, looking at the fish and meats two or three times. It was clear there was something on her mind. It saddened him. Very slowly, he arranged himself in front of her cart. He could sense when she would move, without looking, up the aisle to the next part. There. And now. Just wait a fraction of a second and . . .

"I am so sorry," she said, rushing over to him where he laid on the floor, hit by her cart. His basket of television dinners and frozen entres was scattered around him. She reached down and handed him his Hungry Man chicken dinner while he massaged his foot. She had been stronger than he had anticipated; she pushed a shopping cart with a strength that the last woman, (_the one in London_), hadn't even possessed. "Did I cut the skin?" she asked worriedly, leaning over to check. He breathed in deeply, pleased at her choice of perfume. He looked up at her quickly and bumped top of his head against her forehead. "Ouch. Oh, God, I'm sorry."

"You know," he said after a moment, this time massaging his head, "some people say masochism is their thing. I don't think it's mine. No matter how beautiful the girl . . . it's still a headache at the end of it all." He smiled, and she grinned sheepishly and placed the tips of her fingers in the middle of her brow, dipping her head against it. It formed a sort of protective tent for her nose. (Shy . . . cute . . .) "I'm Jake," he said, offering her his hand.

She took it. "Sydney," she supplied. "Or Syd." She tossed a bag of frozen peas into his basket on the floor; he gave her points for making it without really trying. She could have been a basketball player, he thinks. She could have traveled the great cities by now.

"Well, if you are going with the whole enchilada, I'm Jacob actually. But only my grandmother calls me Jacob. I don't know if I could stand if from anyone else," he glanced at her, "especially you. Gives me the feeling my Gams is speaking to me and you aren't my Gams." He winked as he picked up his basket. "Are you hurt?" He reached over and touched her forehead. "Gonna be a nasty bruise there." He grabbed his bag of peas and stuck it against her hairline.

It was apparent that Syd found herself suddenly caught between a chuckle and a giggle. "Thanks," she said. "But I'm fine. Are you sure I didn't hurt you? You know, caused some damage? Because I can help with whatever medical problems you might have because of this." She was concerned (about him). Sydney was concerned about him.

"You know, now that you think of it, I am feeling a little lightheaded," he said, lurching over to Sydney and leaning heavily on her. If he hadn't have been grinning in such a charming manner, it could have been construed as a harassing gesture. He had perfected this look over the years. "I think it's from lack of food. Past my dinner time. Care to join me?" He caught her looking down into his basket of frozen foods. "I swear, these are for my nephews tomorrow. I was thinking more restaurant and less burnt food."

Syd smiled in an apologetic fashion, but with enough grin behind it that he could tell that she thought the fact he was buying for his nephews cute. "Thanks but I can't." He saw her glance almost surreptitiously at the watch on her wrist. He wasn't fooled for an instant, though. Two and a half minutes earlier she had been skipping up and down the fish aisle with no goal in site; that one hundred fifty seconds couldn't have given her an urgent mission that needed to be completed.

"Please?" he asked, giving her a winning smile. Normally he could see laughter in her eyes eyes that he knew so well that it was frightening but now he saw only weariness and disappointment . . . or was it regret? Was she regretting not being able to have dinner with him? Or just meeting him? (_No._) It couldn't be that. None of his women ever regretted meeting him. Not even that Illinois one, the one in South Holland.

"I'm sorry, but I really can't " she began.

"Oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, interrupted. "I think your hard head gave me a concussion." He clutched his head dramatically, watching her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for . . . there it was. Sydney was laughing. He felt a thrill go through his body as she took his hands and pulled them away from his face, smiling. He was so in control of this situation.

"Sure," she said. "I'll have dinner with you tonight." She reached up and brushed hair out of her eyes and back behind her ears. From a watching her, getting to know her, he knew that this was a habitual action of hers. One that he found quite endearing, actually. He almost reached up and touched her face. He didn't.

"I'll pick you up at eight, then, and we'll grab a burger and then maybe a movie?" He watched her face carefully: the lines around her eyes, the way she held her lips. All the little signs were important as to how she was feeling, what her next decision would be. "What's your address?"

"Maybe we should meet there . . ." Syd said hesitantly. Jake let his face become perplexed, almost blank. Not quite blank, though, because he still needed the quizzical look to catch her attention. It did. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, just pick me up." Sydney gave him his address. He was pleased to note that it wasn't a fake address; it was her real house number. "I've got to finish my shopping so I will see you at . . . eight?" She was so beautiful.

"Eight it is," he said. "I'll see you then." Smiling, he bid her farewell. He knew when to leave. Just as he knew when Sydney got up every morning and on average how many times she entered an airport each week, he knew when he would become a bother to Sydney Bristow. He had gathered the facts, studied them, and come to the careful conclusion.

Walking home that night, the stars embraced him in a blanket of comfort and knowledge; he would succeed.

* * *

**dip me into the water, wash me again**   
_Out of the constant twilight comes day, and with day comes warmth. The peoples of the oceans begin to stir with energy. Their slumber is interrupted by the rays of light that invade their home. Across the ice there is a slickness. The liquids are forming from the solids._

Six weeks later, he met Francie and Will. Of course, he knew them already. He supposed, smiling and making eye-contact with Will for the exact amount of time necessary, that it was actually Francie and Will meeting him. It really was quite droll, this whole dance he was participating in with Will. The pansy-assed little boy was making certain that he wasn't a bad guy. As if Will was any better!

"Hey, Jake, we've heard so much about you." Will's voice was carefully controlled and showed no emotion beyond that of congenial interest in a stranger. He would have to watch Will; he was an expert at what was transpiring. Nobody would realize, except perhaps Will and himself, how exactly charged this meeting was.

Only for Will, of course, was it charged. He couldn't care less.

"I hope it's all good things," he joked, grinning and dropping Will's hand before turning to Francie. Dark eyes met his with amusement barely contained. So Francie knew Will better than anyone thought. That meant that Sydney was aware of the pissing contest that Will had instigated. Time for him to back down and let Will win without actually letting him win. It would be tricky but manageable. These friends of Sydney's were odd people. He would have to introduce her to other, more normal, sects of society.

"Francine?" he asked, giving her a wink. Francie raised her eyebrows with a look that showed exactly how impressed she was with his gentlemanly ways. Women always were. He remembered this one time in Paris when a whore had gone so far as to . . . his thoughts were interrupted when Francie replied.

"Jacob?" Cute. Very cute. Francie laughed a light, trilling laugh one that made Sydney narrow her eyes slightly in study of her friend. Don't worry Syd, he wanted to say, women flit with me. Look at you. Only known me thirty-three days and we've been sleeping together for thirty of those days. He, though, had known her for much longer. He always did know the women before they knew him.

They spoke a few more minutes of almost inane subjects which bored him to tears. He could barely keep his head in the conversation. His estimations of Francie and Will's intelligence dropped. These people were so . . . mid-twenties it was sickening. How many hardships had they gone through in their entire life? He almost laughed at thinking about Francie breaking a nail or Will off to fat-camp as a child.

"So, I hear we're going to . . ." Francie trailed off when his pager went off.

Damn. He glanced down at it and smiled apologetically. "The hospital needs me." He gave a hopeless shrug while Will stiffened considerably and Francie brightened a little more. Sydney became a little more wary of Francie. Possessive. Of him. The thought was laughable. He reached over and grabbed Sydney, pulling her into a half-hug next to him. The message to both Will and Francie was clear. He didn't need to do another thing. His control over everything was asserted once more and he felt so . . . powerful.

"I'll see you at my surprise birthday party, then, on the twelfth?" Francie asked, walking him out. Will gave a good-natured groan and Sydney laughed. Francie looked around with overly innocent eyes. "What? It isn't like I haven't known for weeks. Get Will drunk one time and he tells you everything. One time he was talking about following you, Syd, I swear. It was so funny I couldn't stop laughing. Of course," Francie added thoughtfully, unaware at the slow anger that was building up in him as he looked at Will, "I was drunk, too."

He left quickly, without saying anything to any one. Getting into his rental car cursing the idiot driver who caught him on the side in his truck he drove, quickly, to the outskirts of town. Pulling out a cell phone, he quickly dialed. "It's Jerry Madison. I need two tickets and all the other accommodations for a place in Hawaii on short notice." On the other end, Eddie asked him how short notice. He rolled his eyes. "Well, I'd appreciate on or before the twelfth." There was a pause on the other end before Eddie spoke again. "Great. I need you to have them be made two weeks ago. Send them to the PO Box I gave you."

The drive to his apartment was calming. He began to lose anger. He stopped seeing spots in front of his eyes. Halfway through it, he realized he was gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles had turned white; he stopped. There was something almost sleep-inducing about driving through the crazy LA traffic that overcame him. He let his thoughts wander.

Sydney needed to meet a better class of people. The ones she was hanging out with currently were . . . trash. Poor trash with trendy clothing. He'd met many similar. Young men like Will who pined after the Sydneys of the world. Young women like Francie who whored themselves to the Wills. Syd needed to stay away from them, for her own good.

The clouds moving across the sunset filled him with awe.

* * *

**can i still be forgiven for all of these things**   
_The wind blows across the land, bring the dried bits of earth up to dance in an intricate step that no one knows. With the wind comes sounds; the sounds of a valley filled with the twisting and twirling breeze; the sounds of the murmuring air as it makes it way across the world, meeting no obstacle to worry it._

"This is beautiful," Sydney said, handing over her mug of coffee to him and picking up the open album. "Where did you get these photos?" She flipped through a few pages and grinned. There were several pictures of her standing with face profiled. Black and whites, though mostly colored on the other pages, they showed scenes from the past month or so. Another turn of the page and she saw photos of Credit Dauphine, of their friends. There were professional photos as well as snap-shots.

"Well, about four months ago, I realized our one year anniversary was coming up." He smiled as he flipped the page and showed Syd a picture of her with their dog. "So I brainstormed. Then I was cleaning out our hall closet and it came to me when my cameras fell on my head."

"What, a concussion?" She tapped his nose with her index finger and grinned at him. Her nails were painted bright blue. He didn't remember her having blue nails. Before she had left on the bank trip, her nails had been red-orange, hadn't they? He tried to remember. He would have to speak with her again about cutting back her hours.

"Very funny." Not, actually, so funny. But he supposed he could allow himself to see the joke in there, hidden beneath everything. It was there . . . somewhere. "No, that maybe you'd like, well, a scrapbook. So I went around and collected the duplicate photos from Bob and Anne and everyone else I could think of. Then I took photos of you and places you go with my black and white." Brilliant idea, if he didn't say so himself.

"Oh, sweetie, these are great," she gushed. He placed a hand on her knee, well aware of how thin she had gotten in the past few weeks. He would have to make certain that she ate better, as well. It pained him to see her make these . . . mistakes. Like changing the color of her nail polish while on a trip to Seattle. Or not eating enough, or the wrong foods.

"Oh, you got some in of Francie and Will," Syd said. He winced. Of course he'd gotten some in of Francie and Will. More of them than Elliot or Stacey, for that matter. They were Syd's best friends. Just because he thought they were trash didn't mean he couldn't let her make her own decisions. He mentally made a note to re-confirm the dinner reservations for the restaurant on the thirteenth. One day too late, but it would be acceptable.

"Yeah, look at her. Only two months pregnant and already glowing," he said. (Already fat.)

"What's this?" she asked. He looked down at the picture she held. It was a photograph of a place she visited frequently; an old warehouse. He'd gone there, once, alone and had fond it to be empty. No dust out of place, nothing to give him the assumption that she'd been having an affair. It was a place, he assumed, where Sydney went to be alone. Of course, she never knew that she wasn't alone. He was always with her. But because he didn't believe that she would appreciate that, he stayed in his car whenever she was in there.

He could see how she stiffened while holding the picture. Syd eyes were so carefully blank that some one who wasn't as skilled as he in the art of control wouldn't have noticed it. Her face was neutral, her lips in a sort of smile that was more an expression that just wasn't a frown than a smile.

"Nothing," he said with a dismissive air, shrugging. "I think I saw you turning down some street a few weeks ago and saw you turn there. I took the picture because it looked beautiful. See the papers dancing in the wind? It's almost as if it were choreographed for me."

Sydney smiled, turning the page. "I don't really remember. Probably looking for some buildings that were going to be used as equity or something equally uninteresting. Slipped my mind." She pointed to another photo; this one of their dog. "Look, there's Friday." She laughed. "What is he covered in?"

Later that night, after they had made love and Sydney had fallen asleep, he thought about the photo. He had spoken the truth when he said that he had just chanced to see her vehicle turn onto the side street. If he hadn't been so in control of himself, of everything around him, he might have accepted Syd's explanation about the bank. It was sound enough. Sydney did a lot of work for the bank. However, he didn't believe it. He rolled over on his side and sighed. He would get to the bottom of it all. He settled in to sleep.

In his mind's eye, he could picture the warehouse, with Syd's vehicle parked out front.

* * *

**or have i gone to far now**   
_Slowly the beaches are invaded by the trickling of water. The tide recedes less and less each day and goes further inland with each lap against the shore. Rocks are smoothed into pebbles and pebbles take the shape of sand. Shells are tossed forward and carried back. Soon, there are walls of sod to meet the waters._

He waited until she left again, on another of those trips away from LA to whatever part of the country Credit Dauphine bank sent her to. As usual, he checked the plane tickets issued. And, as usual, there was her name, on the list. Satisfied, he felt safe to revisit her tracks, to go check out the warehouse.

For three days, he saw nothing. There were no furtive drives up the front of the building, Sydney behind the wheel. There were no nightly visits to the warehouse, nothing to suggest to him that there was something going on that he didn't know about, that he couldn't control. He almost gave up. Sydney was too perfect. She couldn't do anything to ruin that.

It was the fourth, and last day, that he found out the truth. Found about Sydney and her behavior. Found out that Sydney was perfect, but not in the way that he had hoped for. Found out that Sydney was only perfect because she was a whore, and the whores always were after him, always threw themselves at him. It was always the whores. Sydney was no different.

He was just about to leave, to meet Sydney at home. She was to arrive in twenty, maybe thirty minutes. He wanted to be there, in their apartment. He wanted to shower her with kisses and hugs and smile and know that the little voice in the back of his head had been wrong, for the first time. He wanted to make love with her, slow and gentle, like it was their first time and their last time.

Through the back came a man he didn't know. A tall man, light complexion, with a thin face. His eyes were dark and bright at the same time. He stepped into the shadows, watching the man as he took out a cell phone. He eyed the keypad very carefully as the number was dialed, one digit at a time.

Four numbers into the sequence, he narrowed his eyes. It was Sydney's number. This bastard was calling the bitch. Rage filled within him, like boiling water. Around him he could see nothing but the phone and the hand holding it. He raced forward, intent on destroying the thing which had caused Sydney to sin.

With a satisfying crack, the arm was bent backwards. Unadulterated (for him, not her) anger supplying adrenaline gave his fists the speed and power to hit the John's face, over and over (wham). He wasn't going to be soiling Sydney anymore (wham). His nose broke, splattering blood everywhere (wham). He reached over and grabbed the cell phone, bashing it into the scull. The phone (and the head) gave a sickening crack.

He took out the knife. The man, by that time, was groaning, begging him. His words were unintelligible, his jaw broken. He took out his knife and walked up to him, staring at the blood pulp that was left of his face. The site of the battered flesh caused his stomach to fill with tiny steel spiders.

"She was perfect," he said. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely perfect. You had to ruin that!" He looked around wildly, searching for a better weapon. Nothing was in site, no boards or anything. "That damn bitch. You had to go and play your little games with you. You had to taint her!" He kicked the man, viciously, in the ribs. The man let out a yelp and rolled on his side, revealing a side arm. He took it up quickly. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU GONNA DO?" he asks. "WERE YOU GONNA KILL HER?"

The gun makes a handy weapon, especially if you use the butt of the gun to finish bashing in the scull of a john. It is made out of metal, which is better than wood. Wood may leave splinters in your hands as you make contact with the bones. It also has a more interesting shape. The scull gives in different places at different times.

He left the body on the floor and drove home. Next to the body he left the phone, now blinking BATTERY LIFE LOW, and the gun. He took the wallet, frowning at the lack of identification but overjoyed at the large bills presented in the billfold. He tossed it out the window as he was driving away from the warehouse before he turned around and went towards his apartment.

It was time to find Sydney Bristow and cleanse her of her sins.

* * *

**have i lost my wings**   
_The dirt withstands for hours, days, months, the constant torment of the sea thrashing against it. The walls, however, become weak. The cold has lesson; the ices are smaller. The walls are begin to tremble and crumble. Earth tries to keep Poseidon's fury at bay, but to no avail. Too late; the land is covered. There is no turning back of time to stop the process._

He was waiting for Sydney when she walked in the door. She was almost an hour late. (Probably with another one of her clients.) Not that he minded. It gave him time to calm down, to study the situation. When she finally arrived, apologizing and saying something about stopping in at the bank before coming home, he was certain about what he had to do.

"Hey," Sydney said, "you take a shower?" She kissed him, ruffling her hands through his still damp hair. "Hmm, you used my shampoo. Vanilla." Sydney grinned at him and sat on his leg. He watched him impassively. "Sexy."

He smiled, with effort. "Could you come with me into the guest room?" he asked. "I want you to help me pick out the best color to paint it. I've changed my mind." He stood up, allowing her time first to slide off of him. Her body rubbed against him in all the right places and she purred her agreement.

They entered the room and Syd went immediately to the paint samples on the table. "I thought you liked the dark red one, Jake," she said, picking up several cards and fanning through them. "But I wouldn't say no if you suddenly liked this yellow one right here."

She turned when he locked the door with a sharp clink of metal against metal. She was startled, but intrigued. She smiled coyly. He walked swiftly to her and placed a hand over her mouth. "Don't worry," he said. "Everything is going to be okay." He pushed her over to the bed. She responded in kind by kissing him, fiercely. ( I>Tramp. /I>) He stopped her, reached under the bed, and brought out a box.

He put it on the table next to the bed and opened it. In it were several handcuffs. She looked up at him and gasped. He watched as confusion and . . . fear . . . . entered her eyes. Why was she afraid? "I took a little trip today, Sydney," he said, straddling her. "To that warehouse." Her eyes got even more afraid. He was in control. "I met an interesting man there." He leaned down and licked her neck, dragging his tongue from the collarbone to the tip of her chin. "Why didn't you tell me, Sydney?" He grabbed her wrists and held tightly. "It would have saved his life at the very least."

She began struggling with him, but it only made it more enjoyable for him. He so loved it when the women fought. Their bodies would brush against his and be electrifying; their hopelessness would fill the room around them and engulf them in the aura of discontrol; their quiet screams would echo throughout the area, driving him insane with desire.

"Shh," he said to her, placing his hand on her mouth. She looked at him with eyes filled with terror and he couldn't help but to dip down and kiss her neck. He couldn't help but to move his tongue over the curves of her breasts. Deftly, he moved in place to restrain her, letting his erection press fully into her stomach while he took the handcuffs off the bedside table and secured both of her hands to the bedpost.

Her legs were up, around him, trying to move him away from her. They were strong, strong legs. He began breathing heavily. Syd was wonderful. The best yet. He reversed his position with some difficulty and secured her legs, also with handcuffs. Did he have the keys? No, he didn't know where they were. Stepping off Syd, he ignored the curses and the oaths that she threw at him and admired her. Her long legs thrashing violently against their restraints. Slender stomach exposed to the bottom of her ribcage because her shirt was pushed up. He reached up and traced his finger around her naval, blew hot air on to the cool skin, touched his tongue to just above her jeans.

He turned his back to her, removing his shirt. He knew that if he turned he would see the admiration in her eyes, so he didn't feel the need to turn. Leaning over to the table, he grabbed from it a large kitchen knife, then turned back to her. He saw surprise in her eyes and . . . fear. Fear because of this old knife, covered in dark crimson stains?

"Don't be afraid," he whispered, coming closer to her. She said nothing to him, only continued to stare at the knife. Slowly, he brought it to her neck. She was strangely still. Disturbing. He touched the tip of the blade to her soft skin, imagining how it would break the epidermis and bring the bright liquid blood seeping forth. Gently, he pressed harder. Not hard enough. He turned the blade and, swiftly, moved it down her body. Sydney winced, and he felt exuberance run through his body, making him shiver. Making quick work of it, he opened the shirt, now sliced down the middle, and cut down each of the short sleeves.

She was braless. It angered him, to see Sydney without a bra. It reminded him of the prostitutes in Oslo, and how eager they were to get him into their beds. It reminded him of all the unworthy ones that he had taken. He looked down at the blade, stained and filthy, and slapped Sydney with the back of his hand. It was her punishment for the crime.

"Slut," he said savagely. Syd spat blood at him. It hit him on the chest. Looking deeply into her eyes, he tossed the knife across the room, away from them. Moving almost as a snail, he moved his face close to hers. Closer. And closer. Until their lips touched and he could taste her blood and he could run his tongue over her lips and the corner of her mouth were it had trickled.

Suddenly he kissed her, roughly, and ran his hands down her body, massaging her breast with brutality. With her moans and gnashing teeth came his pleasure. He sat up and got quickly off her. Searching the floor for the knife, he found it embedded halfway into the wall. He did have a good arm. He walked over to Syd and said calmly, "Don't move, I may cut you." He got her pants off effortlessly.

She was wearing tiny black panties made of lace. The kind to entice men into her bed. The kind he had found on that skank in Canberra. The ones that drove him wild with a sort of uncontrollable desire to be in a woman, any woman. He dropped the knife to the floor, took off his pants and boxers, allowing himself to be seen by her, to drive her to the same heights of yearning that he himself was experiencing.

He kept distance between them when he came to her; almost touching, but not quite. It took so much control for him, right there, seeing her struggle, listening to her call him those filthy, filthy names. He took several deep breaths, inhaled her scent, remembered the first time they had made love. He went to her breasts, pleased when he she moved the few inches she was able to get her perfect nipple out of his mouth. Burbling with laughter, he place hands on either side of her hips and moved himself down to just below her ribcage, where if he let his gaze wander down he could see her perfectly. He moved one hand slightly, positioning it.

Her curls were moist with perspiration and aching. He looked up, past every curve and contour of her body, in her eyes. They were filled with passion; hatred and loathing. He smiled wickedly as he moved a finger into her, caressed the spot that made her eyes glaze over almost imperceptibly with another type of passion altogether. He was watched and waited, working his magic with his gifted fingers, until she was beyond help, and bucking against his hand.

He removed his fingers, sticky, and frowned in distaste. He didn't like this. He traced hearts on the inside of her thigh with that hand while his other reached out and touched her face, where some of the blood had crusted. Tenderly, he wiped away the red flakes from her pale white skin. Her eyes fluttered open and closed several times. He kissed the tip of her nose. She spoke, then. "Bastard."

He loved it when she called him dirty names.

It was becoming unbearable. The sight of Sydney's body, restrained, almost out of strength, nude, in front of him, was starting to look very delicious indeed. Lowering himself on her, he touched the tip of his penis to her thigh and shuddered when he almost lost control. He didn't like that feeling, the feeling of no control. He was always in control here.

He entered her, pleased to feel how she fit so well around him. He started the smooth rhythm, noticing in an almost insane way how it was as if they had never stopped making love from the last time; from the first time. It was this way with all of the women. He was glad that this one, Sydney, was no different from the others. For many days he had worried that she would be. He moved, in and out, filling her to the very depths. Keeping his hands on her hips to guild himself, he couldn't help but to something, to reach up and caress a breast as he kissed her neck.

"You are made of strawberries," he said softly into the hollow. "Strawberries and cream and milk chocolate." With more force, he moved closer and further from and in her. "You are a delicacy that all envy me of."

Her muscles contracted around him, as she came for the second time. As she writhed under him, her arms and legs moving against the cuffs, he found himself falling over the edge into the beauty of his orgasm. The world around him shrank and expanded. He could feel every pore of Sydney and noticed her absence underneath him. He called out her name, gruffly, and kept his lips tightly closed. The air, full of rich oxygen, was un-breathable.

He came crashing down to Earth like a feather. He lay on top of her for a few minutes, catching his breath, before disentangling himself from her. Getting off the bed, he stood before Sydney, tall and regal. The sheen glistened on him, he knew, and gave him a godly appearance in the half-light of the room. He watched as her chest moved up and down with the exertion of breathing. For a second, he thought he saw a butterfly flutter across his vision.

He reached down and picked up the knife, turning it in his fist. Holding it still, he walked to the door of the room and turned on the light. The sudden glare gave his eyes a shock, and it was several moments before he could see properly again. When he could, he swelled with pride. Sydney lay on the bed, her locks disheveled, bruising near her groin area becoming apparent already. He watched her for several minutes while Sydney screamed at him. Obviously, she was regaining her energy. When he walked to her and place the knife on her neck, she quieted. He stroked her hair. So very beautiful.

"Someone stole the stars from the sky," he explained to her gently, "and threw them in your eyes. They are scattered across your vision and dazzle all who look into them." He became angry as he spoke the next part. "They fill all men with lust." (No more . . )

Sydney looked up at him, her eyes begging, pleading. Asking for what? For more of him? For her life to be spared? He was sparing it, sparing her life pain and her soul eternal fires. It pained him to see her like this, almost . . . degraded. How had she degraded herself to this level? "Please," she said to him, "tell me . . why you're doing this. Tell me the truth."

Tell her that he watched as she whored herself to men? Tell her that he saw how Vaughn looked at her, how Will looked at her, how men on the street looked at her? Tell her that he was saving her from a life of damnation? For her soul saved he was willing to sacrifice his own. She would never understand. "Sometimes," he said quietly, so quietly that Syd lifted her head to listen, "the truth hurts."

He plunged the knife into her chest, below the heart but at an angle that cut through it as if it were air. It was the least he could do for the women, making their passing into salvation a quick one. He watched her face as he did it; watched as her eyes cooled in a fraction of a second; watched with a pleasure akin to euphoria. Then she was gone, and he removed the knife sadly. He had saved her.

He looked down at the corpse. Sydney was watching him, he knew, and he smiled towards the corner. He could see her, along with all the other shadows in his concubine, all the others who chose to stay after he freed them. He smiled seductively at them, otherwise ignoring them as he began cleaning up himself. Tossing several identification cards to the floor next to the body, he went to the group of women and grabbed from their midst a can of gasoline.

He began pouring it on the walls, almost astonished at how erotic the shapes became, how they always ended up that way. Slowly, he made his way to the body and doused it thoroughly. The cards, encased in plastic, smiled brightly at him from underneath their covering of gasoline. The smell was intoxicating, rich in the room, and he felt lightheaded. Leaving the room, he got out a pack of matches and smiled.

Maybe he'd visit Memphis.

* * *

**God help us all for what we have done**  
we've lost our way, we can't find the Son  
we make our beds, we seal our fate  
is there still time, or is it too late


End file.
